What Are Friends For?

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Eleven

She’d been half expecting the call. But even so, the phone still managed to startle her badly when it finally rang, the sound shrill in the late-night stillness of her bedroom. Andie jerked awake and swore breathlessly, heart pounding with automatic alarm, and blinked into the darkness, wondering what in heaven’s name time it was.

Late—she knew that much. He never called unless it was late. In the daylight, he was too sure of himself, too full of that male self-confidence he wore like a cloak to allow himself to be beset by doubts and questions and pain. It was only in the dark, late at night, when his demons would slip free and taunt him from the silences of his mind. And that’s when he’d call her.

Andie Spencer, dragon slayer.

She smiled grimly and squinted groggily at the digital clock by her bed. Not this time, hotshot. You can just put those dragons to rest all on your own, because I am not coming out there tonight. Not this time. No way. Not at...oh, God, four-thirty in the morning. Groaning, she stared at the clock in disbelief. Four-thirty!

Somehow she managed to grab the receiver without knocking over the stack of books teetering on the edge of the table.

“Conn.” She dropped back into the soft contours of her pillow, eyes closed, the receiver tucked against her ear.

There was a pause, then a familiar husky male chuckle. “How the hell do you do that, anyway? Know it’s me, I mean.”

“Who else calls me in the middle of the night?” she muttered sleepily. “You got it, didn’t you? Your divorce decree.”

Another pause. Longer this time. She could hear him release a tautly held breath, the sound filled with pain and regret and who knew what else.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” His voice was soft. Rough. “How did you know?”

“I saw the envelope from your lawyer when I put the mail on your desk this morning. It had the kind of portentous weight you’d expect of a divorce decree.”

He chuckled, but she could hear the effort it took. Then he sighed again and she could hear the faint sound of fingers rubbing stubbled cheeks.

She could imagine him sitting there, lights off, staring into the darkness with the thin sheets of paper in his fingers. When he’d first slit the envelope and pulled the pages out, he’d have figured it was no big deal. Would have fingered through the thick wad of documents carelessly, telling himself he didn’t care, that he was over Judith anyway, had been for over a year and a half now. That he could handle it. That, hell, it was the second time, after all, so he was an old hand at it. That he was too blasé, too jaded, too damned cool to feel anything but impatient relief that it was finally finished.

But the pain would have been there. It ran too deep, was too complicated, for it not to hurt. Even this time. And so, much later, he’d have sat there in the vast emptiness of the big house, listening to the whisper of the air-conditioning and the sound of his own heart, alone, and would have felt the quiet and the solitude and the memories close in on him. And then, finally, he’d have reached for the phone.

She squeezed her eyes closed. She was not going to give in this time and traipse all the way out there to hold his hand and tell him she was sorry it hadn’t worked out and that everything would be all right. Not this time. Not anymore.

“How about jumping into some clothes and coming out?” he asked quietly. “We’ll pour ourselves a drink and toast old times and you can help me throw the rest of her pictures out.”

“It’s four-thirty in the morning, Connor,” Andie said through gritted teeth. She was not going out there, damn it. “And you sound as though you’ve been toasting old times half the night already. Put the cap back on that bottle of bourbon sitting on the table beside you, toss that picture of Judith you’re holding into the fire and go to bed. We’ll talk in the office in the morning.”

“Damn!” He laughed softly, the husky, honey-warm sound wrapping around her like a silken web. “You scare me sometimes, lady. But you’re only half-right—it’s a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch on the table beside me, not bourbon.”

In spite of herself, Andie had to smile. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re handling things with a little class this time, Devlin. When Liza divorced you, you got drunk on cheap wine, threw up five or six times and were hung over for three days.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you get better at some things if you do them often enough,” he said quietly. “God knows, I can’t seem to get a handle on staying married, but I’m getting pretty damn good at the divorce part.”

“Oh, Conn...” She could feel his despair right through the phone and fought to ignore it. She had to stop running to his side every time he called, had to quit—

“Andie?” It was just a whisper, filled with pain. “Andie, damn it, I need you.”

Teeth gritted, she squeezed her eyes closed, every atom of her being resisting the sweet pull of his voice. “I have to be at work in four hours.”